The Tale of Yeaton
''"Every dog must have his day." ''Jonathan Swift. Yeaton was one of many beasts that accompanied the druids of Deilamar as they sought to help the Haljrans settle their new city, remembered now as Old Town. He is remembered as one of the greatest heroes of Paradise City for his actions; not only because of his incredible strength, being a hybrid of winter and dire wolf, but for the sacrifices he and many other animals made for the humanoid population. When the goblinoids came to exterminate the last surviving Haljrans, most of the druids were slain, including Yeaton's mistress, Alanda. Bereft of his comrade, the few people who cared enough to wonder where the beasts had gone presumed they fled to the wilderlands. As the goblinoids laid siege to Old Town, strange happenings began. Bodies would be found, shredded and half-eaten, in back alleys and gutters. Orcs, bugbears, goblins, hobgoblins, goblin dogs; assassins, scouts, and saboteurs all being hunted down and butchered, then left in places where they would be found. It only once people began finding patches of filth-coated fur near these scenes that they started putting two and two together: a beast of some sort was killing off the survivors' enemies, and rumors began to spread. Silhouettes seen at night gave rise to stories of a terrible monster that hungered for vengeance, or had taken the Haljrans on as its wards. Near the end of the conflict, Yeaton finally revealed himself. Now a haggard and mangy beast, his body coated in scars form a hundred hidden battles fought in the secret and shadowy places people did not dare tread. The beast spoke to those in charge of the slowly buckling defenses, and promised them support. Popular legend holds that when asked he and what army would join the defense, the great wolf howled for a whole day and summoned a seemingly endless horde of beasts whose owners and caretakers had all been slain, leaving them abandoned and forgotten on the battlefields. With this army assembled, they joined the remnants of Old Town's defenders, and made it possible for the remaining population to flee to safety behind the Borderwalls. It was expected that such an army, even with its impressive size, would be facing a hopeless battle: the goblinoids were heavily armed, well trained, and professional. The animals by contrast had but claws, teeth, and hides; even the few magical creatures within its ranks were still just animals. But even knowing this, the defenders charged into the enemy without hesitation like a swarm of locusts upon a cornfield. Those with magic augmented and supported those without, the toughest used their bodies to shield the frail, and the wise directed the feral to target enemy VIPs. But even with this, and a fair number of humanoid soldiers, the battle was a bloodbath almost too terrible to watch. The City's defenders fell in such vast numbers that they seemed to create a carpet of the dead; which, frighteningly enough, worked to their advantage. The four (and six, and sometimes eight) legged beasts moved more easily over the blood-slick ground more easily than frenzied bipeds. And yet still with this, the battle seemed a lost cause.. Until reinforcements arrived. As though Telo-Haljr itself spawned them, more and more animals joined the fray. Vast murders of crows, aeries of eagles, and crowns of griffons came screaming from the skies. Packs of blood-mad dire beasts, dogs, raptors, and worgs spilled out from the alleyways and hidden alcoves, howling and braying as though possessed. And from under the ground, in the sewers, there came an unending plague of cats, compys, and vermin. The slaughter spiralled out of control from there, with bodies piling up so fast that they created small hills, tall enough to bury tanks whole. The goblinoids became trapped, completely surrounded; even if they'd had the presence of mind to try and retreat, their every avenue of escape had been cut off. They say the din of the battle was so loud and terrible that even the undead in nearby Terria did not dare to intrude. The final battle of Old Town only lasted for some six or seven hours. The scale of the slaughter though was so great that it remains embedded into the Paradisian cultural consciousness even now. Every humanoid and innumerable beasts laid down their lives in that brutal last stand, but their sacrifices were not in vain. Those who did not escape were few in number, and despite the losses suffered Yeaton's vision of victory had been achieved; not one of the goblinoids survived the encounter. Most of the animals that had survived were wounded, including Yeaton himself, and unable to flee back into the wild as those with the strength left to move had once it was over. No strength left to do anything but lay down and revel in their victory before their wounds overcame them. But then the doors opened, and people came flooding out, picking up every animal they could and carrying them back past the walls to try and save their tiny lives. No expense was spared, every family, every faction had something to offer; if not to mend then at least to comfort, there was not one soul that refused to chip in. Only Yeaton refused any offer of aid or a warm couch to rest upon. Legend holds that he knew he was dying, his body riddled with bullet holes and coated in barbed blades; that the only thing keeping him alive was hatred, spite, and stubbornness. Allowing the bipeds to fail at saving him would only waste resources that could save another. When the last of the beasts were carried back past the walls, the doors were sealed again- forevermore- and Yeaton rose one last time and walked to them. He turned around and sat, staring at the empty streets for several days. Perhaps when finally content that all was well, he finally laid down, and allowed himself to die. A statue of Yeaton now stands in the middle of the Row, which was named after the great wolf. A grandiose thing built by draconid hands: a towering beast, standing protectively over the body of a featureless humanoid woman who lays broken on the ground. The wolf's face is twisted into a snarl at all who would challenge him. The fur on his back forms into crows that seem to fly straight out of his body, at his feet is a small horde of household pets and lesser beasts, all poised and waiting for his command to attack. He is the only animal that (as far as anyone knows) has ever been canonized into sainthood by the Universal Temple, whose name is invoked by those that find themselves facing hopeless odds. Followers of the Pagan faiths like to claim that their gods- sometimes all the gods- smiled upon the noble beast, granting the mongrel and his army the berserker rage that let them fight on for so long. To this day the Paradisian people honor the animals' sacrifices by being a very pet-oriented culture; almost every family has at least one, many have several, and no other country can claim it has as many animal rights protections as Paradise City. Yeaton Row Back to Main Page